


binds

by orphan_account



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: Character Undeath, Devotion, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Loyalty, Royalty, Time Shenanigans, Understanding, ah yes. him. him good, also monomon is there, i didn't exactly give her much closure, i like the him, if anyone could kill the radiance unassisted it would be herrah, lurien is just a confused boy, oopsies, quirrel ! quirrel!!!!, to a specific cause
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:54:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21684850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The Watcher, the Teacher, and the Beast makes three. The Wanderer is the tie between them.─in other words: what becomes of a seal when it finally breaks?
Relationships: Herrah the Beast & Hornet (Hollow Knight), Herrah the Beast & The Pale King, Lurien the Watcher & The Pale King, Monomon the Teacher & Quirrel (Hollow Knight), Monomon the Teacher & The Pale King
Comments: 2
Kudos: 113





	1. the watcher.

**Author's Note:**

> this is the beginning of a series focusing on the bonds between the denizens of hallownest, etc. etc. it's also time travel, because when isn't my hollow knight fic related to time travel.

Nondescript and unnoticed, a letter is delivered to the Watcher.

Its seal is a pure ivory, stretched and stamped in the image of a six-winged bug. The image of the six-winged King, Lurien suspects, his wings outstretched in the idea of a halo enshrouding him. Carefully, Lurien peels the seal away from the parchment.

His butler lights a candle, and places it on the desk. He unfurls the letter. Holding the candle above it, Lurien begins to read.

> Watcher,
> 
> You are cordially invited to a meeting with His Majesty, the Pale King, at the White Palace. Arrive within the Royal Hall at precisely 10 a.m. for a private consultation with his Majesty. A thirty-minute grace period will be afforded in the event that you are unable to arrive for 10 a.m.
> 
> Regards,
> 
> Solsker, the Royal Advisor

He sighs. Such short forewarning. Truly, he wishes that he could have some prior awareness of the arrangement ─ as it is, he already has to rearrange a consultation with the Great Sentries over the security of the City of Tears. Every day is just more work.

Once more, Lurien sighs. There is no avoiding a meeting with the Pale King. He is the highest of Hallownest, their beginning and their end. He is the centre of the kingdom. Gently, Lurien folds the letter up. It is placed in the bottom of a drawer.

Now to plan the meeting with the Great Sentries.

When he awakens, the window is streaked with rain. Something about the scene is oddly picturesque. If he had the time for it, then Lurien would paint it; the scene would look wonderful in pale blues and warm yellows. He already has to leave.

“Your cloak,” says his butler. Lurien bends down, so that he can fasten it around his neck. His butler smiles. This is the warm cloak, the one with the fur trim and the warm hood. (It had been a gift from the butler.) He drops down into a bow.

Lurien laughs, dropping into his own bow. “Thank you,” he says. His butler immediately sets about fixing his collar.

One of the lesser members of the royal household greets Lurien at the gates of the palace. They drop down into a stiff bow, a hooked weapon like a claw at their belt. Blank-faced, they lead Lurien into the palace. Beyond the grand gates are ivory walls, pristine gardens of ivory plants. Everything is white.

Why is the king so obsessed with the colour white?

The question weighs soft against Lurien’s mind. He frowns, and bats it aside; it will not do to thrust such informal questions in the face of the Pale King. It should not matter to him.

Lurien drops to one knee.

“Arise,” says the Pale King. His voice is somewhere between soft and cold, weighing almost oily against his mind. He stands. He does not look up. “Watcher. I presume that you read the letter I had delivered?”

Lurien does not dare look up. He nods, just barely. “I expect an answer of you.”

“I did, my king.” He murmurs. “Although… I do not understand what manner of event would be so important as to invite me to it.” That is the truth, is it not? There is no reason for the King to talk to Lurien, of all bugs. It still confuses him.

The King slips into a different position ─ slightly more relaxed, one clawed hand pressed against his chin. He seems somewhat more at ease. How strange. The change does not seem to make sense.

Almost soft (and isn’t that a wonder?) he says, “a danger lurks on the horizon of Hallownest. An infection… it would seek to warp the minds of my people, and twist them into faceless, thoughtless beings. I have formatted a plan to prevent that infection from spreading, however, I would need three bugs to help me secure the future for the kingdom.”

“I have chosen you to be one of those bugs.”

Lurien blinks, and looks up. The King has a warm look in his eyes. It feels odd, as if the look should not be there. Something crawls along his back.

Frowning, Lurien asks, “what would you have me do?”

The King sighs. Strange. From the limited view of him that Lurien has had the privilege of seeing, he has appeared composed and well put-together. It is as if he has locked away his emotion for the benefit of his people. Everything about him appears devoted to his kingdom. Is there any flaw in him?

Lurien lets the thoughts flow from his mind. “To seal the infection,” begins the King, “the three chosen bugs would fall into an endless sleep. The combined strength of their minds, the seals that dreams provide, and the magic of the Hidden Weavers would be enough to prevent the infection from ever breaking free.”

The King continues, “you would be placed into an enchanted sleep. Nothing would wake you, until the threat of the infection had been removed ─ your body would be placed into stasis for as long as necessary.” He stops. Pauses. The words linger within Lurien. “You would be doing your kingdom a favour. I would eternally be grateful to you.”

Lurien taps two claws against the soft lining of his cloak. Does he take the opportunity bestowed upon himself? He has so much left to do with his life ─ compared to the aristocracy of the City of Tears, he is still young. There is much for him to do.

Still, the way the King presents this opportunity… it seems almost as if Lurien is expected to become one of the King’s most trusted bugs. The thought is terrifying. He presses it aside, focuses only on the facts he has.

The kingdom is in danger. Three chosen bugs are required to keep the threat contained. They will keep the threat contained for as long as they need to. They will keep the kingdom safe.

...Lurien has just one clear choice.

How long has he been sleeping? How long has he dreamed? Time has long become a fluid sequence of moments. He can blink and see the outline of the City of Tears, silhouetted through the gateway to the Temple of the Black Egg. Wisps of orange float over the spires.

Is that?

No. It cannot be. He dreamed for a reason. He helped to keep it concealed, hidden, locked away; he prevented it from ever becoming a reality within the kingdom. He was successful.

So why is he still dreaming?

Lurien should be awake. He should be gazing over the City of Tears, he should be watching over his people. He should be keeping them safe. Why does he still dream? The threat should be gone.

There is no company within this dream. There is no life except Lurien, and yet there is no death. He stares, empty-eyed at the sky. It is dotted with golden clouds. Sometimes screams float over from the largest clouds. The barest imprint of ledges sometimes appear upon the horizon. Lurien does not know what awaits.

He does not care to find out.

The small being has curved horns. They are not quite like that of the strange, small one that the King said would contain the infection. But they are similar. Come to think of it, everything about it reminds Lurien of the King’s strange protége. The black expanse of its body, the pure white of its shell, even the cut and colour of its cloak match that of the King’s protége.

It scratches out words on the floor.

 **infectionseeksealdestroy** writes the creature. It shows no signs of infection, as Lurien expects. The seal upon him holds and so he lives as that seal, preventing the infection from breaking free. That orange haze over his city must have been a trick of the mind. A ploy by the infection to weaken him and provide openings for it to escape.

The creature draws its nail.

Lurien hears the humming first. It is a low, constant thing, pressing against the side of his skull. Soon comes the scream. Even though everything within him murmurs that something must be happening, that something has to be happen, he does not anticipate it.

It rings through the darkness surrounding him. The world trembles. The shudders bring flecks of light and sticky orange pus down around him. Infection, realises Lurien. He has failed. The darkness collapses and bursts outwards, suddenly a towering column, and the golden clouds drift around him.

The scream reverberates through his body. A slash cuts through his cloak. Another and another and another. Lurien wakes.

It must simply have been a bad dream.


	2. the teacher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world has spun between two ideals, two lights, the wyrm and the radiant one for far too long. Monomon does not know all of the details. But she wishes to learn.

Monomon is ─ well, Quirrel can’t put his admiration for her into words.

Intellectually, he knows that what he feels towards her is gratitude. She had been the one to provide him this job amongst the Archives, this life where he can bury himself in research and enjoy it. Monomon had been the one to pull him from his post-graduate wandering haze; she had been the one to give him hope for her future.

But there is something more to what Quirrel feels. He supposes it is a sort of devotion. Perhaps a desire to help her develop her research? After all, he would do anything to help her. She had done just that for him.

But this ─ No. There is no way that Quirrel will be able to support Monomon with this.

“I simply cannot help you, Madam,” says Quirrel. Does his voice shake? He cannot tell. His mind feels awash, spun through with the knowledge of the deed she would have him support. “This ─ I ─ to help you would feel like signing your death warrant.”

Monomon sighs. She gently brushes one of her tentacles over his cheek, before drawing him into a hug. Her hold feels just a bit too delicate. When he looks up at her Quirrel thinks he sees something like pity. He cannot stand seeing that look.

Kind, almost too kind, Monomon says, “I understand, my dear apprentice. If there was any choice other than this be sure that I would have taken that road instead.”

“Still. I…”

“I know,” Monomon murmurs. She hugs him tighter. The pressure is warm, familiar, and comforting in a way that he cannot describe. “I know.”

“You’ve always wanted to see the world, haven’t you, my apprentice? There is so much more than Hallownest has to offer. Have you yet been to the Queen’s Gardens? The flora there is beautiful. One day you must go. Or… yes. That would be the best option.”

“What would, Madam?” Asks Quirrel.

Monomon simply turns. Two tentacles reach out and unfurl a map. Small stones are placed over the four corners once the map is completely spread out, to reveal an image of Hallownest in all its glory. She points towards a spot to the far east of the kingdom.

Quietly, Monomon says, “one day you must go here. You must go beyond Hallownest, to the kingdoms far beyond. It may take from you ─ may strip you of your memories, leave you with only your barest sense of self. But you would be safe from  _ it. _ ”

“I ─” Quirrel begins.

Monomon points to the door. The tentacle she holds up trembles. “Go,” she says. He leaves in silence.

The letter arrives on a cold, quiet day. The Oomas float stilly in the thick air, as if suspended in some liquid. She is the only one present within the halls of the Archives. Even Quirrel is not present, as devoted to his work as he may be. She finds the silence strange.

Yet despite her desire for noise, the thud of the letter falling to the floor comes as a surprise. Monomon starts. She looks up from the tablet, peering down the hall towards the source of the sound. Nothing follows. It mustn’t be important, she decides, resuming her analysis of the tablet.

Curiosity pricks behind her eyes, through. She wants to find out what exactly fell down. Despite her insistence on studying the tablet, she wants to investigate this, too. The urge prickles. Ignoring it, Monomon returns her attention towards the tablet. The words swim.

She sighs. Better to find out what was deposited now than to wait until the urgency leaves her swimming with nerves. Carefully, Monomon makes her way towards the entrance hall. It feels too quiet. The cold swims around her. She ignores it.

Sitting innocuously at the entrance of the Archives is a letter.

A letter. Such a thing should not instill dread within her, and yet the sensation crawls through her. Monomon idly picks up the letter, staring closely at it. The symbol of the king is stretched out upon it, six wings enshrouding his form. Something stirs within her.

She ignores the feeling. Work should always be treated with practicality and not with emotion, after all. The Pale King, especially, prioritises the practical over the emotional. The feeling is crushed within her chest.

But Quirrel ─ he has done so much for her.

His devotion is… admirable, to say the least. Quirrel is focused on his tasks, no matter what they are. Even when he does the menial he is fully focused upon his tasks. Beyond that, beyond the menial tasks and the focus, Quirrel truly cares for her. The thought is strange.

The thought terrifies her. Because ─ Quirrel is kind, and he cares. He should not care. Their friendship is one based simply on work, not a thing to base a friendship upon. And, well. Quirrel will be hurt should be choose to fulfil this task. There is but one alternative for her to seek.

Monomon begins plans to construct a tank. It is the perfect size to contain a being of her stature.

The voice has begun to whisper in her mind. She hears it, a pale imitation of kindness, saying meaningless phrases. They are phrases with no analytical meaning, no truth to them that Monomon can identify. So she pushes the words to the back of her mind.

Her time grows ever shorter, though. The whispers of the voice within her mind are simply a prelude to the great foe which approaches the kingdom, she knows. Monomon must complete her duties. She weaves her life’s energy into her mask and  _ breathes. _

Quirrel will grieve, she knows. But he will be free. He will be safe. That is all that she can hope for, in the end.

Monomon knows plumes of darkness and soft-warmth, tinted a sickly green. The image painted across her mind’s eye is wrong ─ the green is not quite correct, whereas the black is too rich and dark against the pale. Beyond the pale, though, lies nothing.

The nothing scares her. She knows what should surround her. There should be the thick, acrid smell of the acid, followed by the soft sound of it bubbling away. The room should be illuminated with the gentle, glimmering light of the tablets. Yet nothing of it is present.

She feels somewhat unnerved. Not to the extent that she expects, no, not yet, but the idea has begun to creep against her spine. Twin wings brush against her. Where do they come from? She does not know. Monomon sighs and ignores ─ the feeling must not be there because she says it is not. She dreams.

She wakes, and sees Quirrel. He looks… strangely twisted, as if time has taken its toll from him. His back is hunched. Tears build in his eyes. Her mask should rest over his face, she knows, and yet it is not there. He looks to be grieving.

“Do not grieve,” she says. She tries to say. She cannot say it. “I chose my fate for myself. You were meant to be free, Quirrel, not confined to this old place. Be free.” The small figure beside her apprentice tilts its head, staring at her. It nods. Does it understand what she is trying to say?

How strange. She had been led to believe the things were unfeeling.

It cuts her apart and she breathes. Finally, she is no longer constricted to that place of diluted acids and nightmarish shadows. She lets herself drift free. Her consciousness lingers, flickering between ideas. Does she want to stay?

Monomon supposes ─ well, if anything, she wants freedom. She wants to research in peace, she wants a chance to learn. She wants Quirrel to be free. Yes. Quirrel will be free, because she has decreed it.

Monomon Focuses, and the world spirals into overwhelming bright.

Quirrel opens his eyes. He had thought ─ yes. The last thing he had known was the cold stare of the little wanderer, their nail resting limply against their back as they sat beside him. He had told them that he felt somewhat free, had he not? The details feel blurred. There is a single, sharp moment of clarity, a bitter chill to his body…

Ah. Yes. The thought makes sense, no matter how morbid. It does not explain how he has woken. It does not explain how the green glow of the Archives surrounds him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> twitter @phantomhwa
> 
> this one wasn't working in the same format as the watcher's was, so i tried experimenting with moving between povs and experiments. i think that it worked well! please comment what you thought.


	3. the beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the beast lets herself breathe, the blood in her veins flowing, her strength twisting and weaving and shattering the air into pieces. there is nothing and no one that can contain her.

The Pale King has to come to visit her personally.

His sneer is distasteful at best; he peers down at them despite his short stature, ignorant of the true nature of the Deepnest. He hisses quietly as the cobwebs stick to his robes. Though his face remains hidden by the mask and crown he wears, his displeasure is clear.

Herrah holds herself up. She will not be frowned upon by this creature, king though he may be. This is not his lands. This is her realm, and it is her crown to be held up high. Not his. That sneer of his could be interpreted as a threat.

“What do you seek of me, pale one,” hisses Herrah, but the king does not flinch. She has seen bugs of greater integrity than this one quiver before her. She has never needed to go to greater lengths to reach her goals. Fear is her weapon. Fear is a tool that she grips and wields like a scythe.

The king is unscathed by her biting tone. “An audience,” he says, voice rich and steady. “And a boon, if you would. A favour.”

Herrah could almost laugh at the audacity of him. This wretched creature has done nothing to deserve her help. This foolhardy bug is nothing in her lands. His people dare not wander too close, nor do his greatest advisors ─ each bug of Hallownest knows the strength that Deepnest wields.

Here, in her lands, cloaked and covered by the cobwebs they weave, the Pale King looks so small. He is barely the height of the smallest of the aristocracy. Of course she can sense power within him ─ but this is not his domain, nor is power his to wield. Any action of his could be taken as a crime.

He is no king here, and Herrah will treat him as such.

“I have no reason to listen to you, pale thing,” she says. Her voice does not quaver but remains cool. “What could you tell me that would be so important?”

She can feel the emphatic whisper in his voice as he explains the infection. A disease of the mind, primarily, one that warps it into something other. When the mind is drained empty it is filled with the infection and the body warps to hold it. Orange blots that shudder and burst over the shell, twisting bugs into shadows of their former selves, loyal to some cause that nobody can identify.

The wretched, pale one tries to coerce her into becoming a Seal. He offers no reason for her to do so, nor no reward for her expected service. Herrah says nothing. “Well?” He asks, but it sounds more like a demand.

Herrah places two claws together, and they click. She nearly laughs. It would be so easy to, to spit in the face of his ridiculous cause, his senseless words. “I have no reason to trust you, pale one. I have no reason to become a seal for you. You offer me no reward, no incentive to become a tool for you to use.”

"You would do well to respect me, _spider,_ " the king hisses. She laughs at that. Can he truly think of no better insult? To call her a spider is to respect her origins ─ to call her anything other would be the true insult.

Amidst her laughs, she says, "oh, you wretched thing. It is you who should respect me. You are in my kingdom, are you not?"

The Pale King offers her a child. Suddenly, the bargain seems all the more alluring.

Her child is something strange. She does not have all the extra limbs of a spider but she does not have the strange composition of the pale one. Perhaps, as she grows, she will develop more limbs, growing into the body that seems too small for her. For now, she is small, and she is the gleaming jewel of Deepnest.

Should the strength be with her, she would deny the king his seal. But she is weak with the tremors of bearing a child, and her power does not return to her easily.

Herrah lingers for long enough to see the child grow into herself. She develops two more sets of limbs, spindly things which she does not know how to control. At least not yet. Herrah carefully shows her how to wrap the new limbs around herself, how to tuck them against her side where they will not be seen, how to transform them into weapons for her protection.

The princess is something of a gifted child. Beyond herself and the royal household, the weavers take an interest in her. Herrah goes to them in search of a teacher, to guide her daughter in the ways of soul and spirit, to protect her from any foes.

The child takes to the ways of soul faster than any other Deepling does. She smiles at her child as she Focuses, the world glimmering white around her, the energy concentrating within her for the first time. Then she howls, and the energy bursts from her back, and suddenly her child has wings.

The Deeplings croon and surround her, nudging gently against her sides. How strange. The gendered child is much larger than any other Deepling and yet she seems all the more frail, being supported by them. Herrah gently lifts up her child, and takes her to the weavers. The Deeplings stare back at her in something like awe, or something like fear.

Herrah becomes the Seal the king desired. Her last act is to tell her daughter she loves her.

Light surrounds her. It whispers. It howls and it shrieks and it glows when it thinks that she does not notice. Then it turns, slow and gentle, and tries to embrace her in the warmth it exudes. Herrah lets it draw close, then cuts it into pieces. She is not weak.

Fear may be the first weapon every Deepling learns to use, but it is not their primary weapon. For Herrah it is her thread. She has always manipulated it with an ease that no other spider has, twisting and sharpening it into a weapon and cutting her foes to pieces. Becoming royalty has not dulled her instincts, nor has becoming a mother.

If anything, motherhood has only sharpened her. She is driven by an instinct to protect, to drive away the foes who could hurt her child. Herrah’s strength may waver, but her conviction does not. This light is a threat, and so she will cut it down.

Herrah is not weak. She is a Queen, after all, not an imitation of a ruler. She is something stronger than expected ─ she is stronger than that light, after all, and she had the strength to deny the king his power. She has always had power, and she will not let dreams take that from her.

Her child grows. Herrah watches through the thin veil between dreams and reality, counting the motes that flicker by. She is able to watch for thirty-seven dream motes passing by ─  _ one, two, three  _ are already gone. Thirty-four motes are left.

Herrah sees her child grow. She sees the princess train under the Lords, and sees her strengthen herself under the tutelage of the Hive’s queen. The child never ventures to the Queen’s Gardens, nor does she return to the Deepnest. Instead she drifts through Greenpath and the Fungal Wastes, sweeps over acidic lakes and into the City of Tears. Some days she lingers in the Kingdom’s Edge.

Herrah keeps a watchful eye over her. She may not be able to act, but she is able to watch. She sees the vessel chase after her daughter, naivety clinging to its shell, and watches it defeat her once, twice. It makes its way to the Deepnest.

It arrives, and the dreams are stained dark.

**infectiondestroyfree,** the vessel manages to write. It stares blankly up at her, drawing its nail.  **sorryforhornet.** She does not understand what it means, at first. As the nail cuts through her, she realises. She understands.

Herrah did not see her daughter’s naming ceremony. Herrah did not know her daughter had a name.

She breathes. Focuses. Both nothing and everything come into view; she sees the small thing, pale and darkened by the void, and she feels it absorb her very essence. The darkness consumes her. It feels all the more welcoming than the light.

It lets her see from one eye. The plinth where she had rested is empty, but her child rests at the side. Herrah hears her sigh; she wishes with all of her heart that she could tell her daughter she is proud. The vessel leans against her.

She knows that she will talk with Hornet once more. Time will ensure it. She just has to wait.

**Author's Note:**

> twt @ phantomhwa; i've done a lot with this little set that i've changed quite a lot, revamped and rewritten some stuff to make it clearer and more easily understood? it still retains the same sense, but i have made some changes. i'm proud of how this fic came out in the end, so i hope you enjoyed!


End file.
